


In Your Atmosphere

by kpkndy



Series: a good man is hard to find [7]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Fantasizing, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Masturbation, Semi-public masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-21
Updated: 2017-02-21
Packaged: 2018-09-25 23:03:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9850733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kpkndy/pseuds/kpkndy
Summary: Gabe is away. Jack thinks about him after-hours.





	

**Author's Note:**

> i'm a validation whore, if that means anything. 
> 
> i love a good, wistful wank, be sure to check out the rest of this series if you want to see more like this, and the world and characters that are developed outside, before, and after this.

He knows the door is locked. He’s checked it enough goddamn times, and even still, his heart is racing.    
  
With a slightly shaking hand, he takes the shirt off of his desk, worn, now, an old regulation grey. A handwritten name is on the back inside collar even though it’s a raggedy t-shirt, of all things. Even though there were a million of them made, and nobody should have ever wanted to steal it.    
  
Yet, there he is, holding the purloined shirt that says ‘Reyes’ in sharpie and breathing it in.    
  
It’s far too late for somebody to be coming by. Jack is only here by his own grace. His day started at 0600 and it’s just gone midnight. His ducks are only just in a row, and all he has to look forward to is an empty bed and halls of fresh blue paint that make him feel all the lonelier.    
  
The shirt is --something. A small reward for the hell of the day, and week and month. He breathes in the smell and for a few moments, his black-and-white memories of being pressed upon Gabe flash into colour. The other man smells like sweat, a little pool chlorine, and his anti-perspirant that hints at sandalwood and something ashier. He smells like masculinity, and what’s left in the fabric is unbearably intimate.    
  
Footsteps, distantly, embarrass him, and Jack lowers the shirt, opening his eyes, forced to face the stillness of the room. He feels oversensitive in the wake of the action --Gabe’s fragrance lingering on him, under his skin, making him paranoid at every noise he hears and nearly hard just thinking about it.    
  
He wonders if he shouldn’t just cool off somewhere besides his office. Maybe take a shower in Gabe’s room and use his soap to get closer to him. To bridge the infernal distance. Jack only ever learned in miles, and even though he knows the distance in kilometers is the same, it feels like Gabe is in another galaxy and Jack wants to be touched.    
  
He thinks about the cool of the tile in Gabe’s shower. Of the lanolin and lavender conditioner he uses --and how fresh it smelt under the jet when suds were still washing down the dark skin of his shoulders as Jack fucked him good and tender, counting alluvial plains with one hand and grasping desperately with the other.    
  
Not that he needed to hold tight --Gabe had moved backwards with every thrust, demanding more, never much at a loss.    
  
Jack feels all the hotter under the collar to think of it. To think of it here, of all places. He tries to compartmentalise. To keep Gabe separate from Reyes. To divorce what happens on the mat to what happens in the shower, but Gabe is far away and that resolve Jack has is failing so that it’s all spilling together in a mess of wistfulness and longing and desire.    
  
He’s half-hard before he thinks to touch himself. His left hand stays in the fabric of the shirt as his right palms himself, lazily, absently, through his pants. There are at least fifty good reasons he should pull himself together and get to sleep, or at least wait until he’s in his own private space to do this. But all of them seem so collateral when another wave of want swells in him at the thought of doing this with Gabe. Of violating protocol so deeply and fundamentally and having both.    
  
The desk is just the right height to be bent over, Or do the bending. Gabe’s even said so, once or twice.    
  
Swallowing, suddenly flustered, Jack stares at the door as he moves the shirt into his second drawer down. It’s a temporary place for something so precious, but he clicks it shut and locks it before looking down at himself. He’s hard, and feels restricted, skin itching, head buzzing faintly. He works his pants open easily without bothering to take them off, and it’s so uncharacteristic and hasty that it only adds to the heat rising in him.    
  
Jack remembers to breathe before he takes himself in hand fully. He feels hyperaware of the noise he’s making, and of the light spilling in from the bottom of the door. There, he sits in the dim, taking his length apprehensively and working slowly up.    
  
His stomach tightens as pleasure swells in him, sweetly relieved as he moves his hand, lax and slow, at first, thinking of Gabe’s scent more than anything before his elbow grazes the desk and he remembers Gabe’s remark.    
  
His eyes open --he hadn’t remembered closing them, and he considers the solid, sturdy oak. He considers being bent over it. Gabe’s hand on the back of his neck. The other hand trailing down his back before settling on his hip. God knows Gabe likes to tease him, sometimes. Likes to savour every second of fucking Jack --especially the first few. Every quiver and involuntary tense feeds his appetite, until Gabe has buried himself there, grinning against Jack’s neck raggedly like a shark cutting into it’s prey.    
  
He’s always been so eager to praise Jack, too, so appreciate of every detail, and it isn’t hard to imagine him pulling out to set a tilting, agonising pace and telling Jack how tight he feels, how hot and intoxicating, and how Gabe’d wanted to do this the moment he saw the desk.    
  
By now, Jack can feel himself starting to leak, precum warm on the sides of his fingers as he works them, letting the lubrication ease his strokes, letting him imagine how the inverse would be.    
  
He wonders about bending Gabe over the desk himself. He wouldn’t want the other man to go down willingly --he adores a protest. Adores the way they can get eachother breathless, and then Gabe would be pinned on his back, throat bared, looking at at Jack with that derisive smirk that says ‘come here and make me’.    
  
Jack would want him just like that --standing above him, hooked by Gabe’s legs, barely undressing, letting Gabe suck his fingers wet before working him open carelessly and cruelly, twisting his fingers to get Gabe to arch so prettily off of the wood and then thrusting in, unable to wait a second longer.    
  
“Fuck,” He coughs out at that, into his free hand, muffled his cries as he squirms, blushing, breathless, fucking his fist and wanting it to be tighter and better and hotter, like Gabe always is. Wanting to hear every noise he can wring out of the other man to spur him on, but being met only with the distant hum of a generator and the wet noise of his hand working over his cock.    
  
Somebody walks by, then, and he sucks a breath in and holds it, looking down at his glistening, rosy dick and knowing he’s close. Knowing somebody could knock and that he shouldn’t be doing this here, of all places, where he’ll be sat in less than eight hours, taking phonecalls and playing Strike Commander. Here, in the very position he knows he’s going to cum.    
  
And God, Gabe would die to see him like this. He wouldn’t even have to touch Jack --not a bit. He’d just have to sit there, on the desk, looking down at him, talking in that low, almost disdainful voice about how bold Jack is being. About how the door is unlocked, and how anybody could walk in and see ‘just what their Commander is made of’.    
  
The idea of it is too much, suddenly, and he coughs out a whine, covering the noise as best he can as he cums in three hot spurts, coating his hand, rocking into it to wring every last sensation from it until his breathing is heavy with compensation and he’s lax in the seat, eyes closed, bent slightly over himself.    
  
Eventually, his eyes open, and he swallows, feeling awkward in the quiet and dim of the room, alone again. He uses a tissue from the box on his desk to dry himself and his hand before he dresses again, still hard, but far less tense.    
  
After a few more seconds, he stands, leaning heavy on the desk, before taking the shirt out of the second drawer. He bundles it under his arm to make it small before he leaves the room, giving it one last lookaround before unlocking his door and stepping out into the hall that he finds too bright.    
  
He doesn’t go to Gabe’s room to shower, or even sleep. He feels as if he’s been brazen enough already, and instead slinks back to his own quarters, feeling heightened and heavy all at once. The night is merciful enough that he doesn’t pass anybody on the way, and by the time he’s unlocking is room door, he’s mostly softened.    
  
It’s dark inside. And empty.    
  
He doesn’t bother to turn on a light. His eyes adjust to the darkness near-seamlessly after a few moments, and he passes by the living area and on into the privacy of his bed. Crawling up at, he ignores the time he can see blinking bearily in LED, pulling the sheets down to slip under them without the fanfare of getting undressed.    
  
He puts the shirt on the pillow beside him. It’s out of lace against the clean, white cotton, looking older, discoloured and thinning but inherently loved. Probably the only good thing that either of them owns to remember SEP by.    
  
In the dark, Jack settles himself, and pulls the fabric towards him, along with the pillow it’s one, taking it in his arms like another body until it’s pressed against him. It feels unnaturally light and cold, but after a few minutes, his bodyheat has warmed it and he can smell Gabe there, in the dark.    
  
He falls asleep like that, getting five or so hours of relief before lights illuminate the room and he’s woken by the gentle sound of wind coming through the rye, increasing in volume until he says, “I’m up.” in a stiff voice.    
  
He brushes his teeth and reviews any messages that have come in while he was sleeping, finding mostly medial updates and a few questions, and --yes! Something outstanding from Gabe, written in lowercase.    
  
‘did you take my SEP shirt’   
  
Not even a question mark. Jack looks over his shoulder at it before thinking to reply.    
  
‘I don’t have it. You must have left it in your locker.’   
  
That’s where he leaves it, too, on the way to his first meeting of the day, stuffing it carefully on the top shelf where Gabe keeps an assortment of other knick-knacks. He’s always been a bit of a hoarder.    
  
It’ll be right there waiting for it’s owner when he returns, in less than three weeks. Gabe won’t have ever noticed it’s absence.    
  
In the meantime, Jack thinks, closing it with a sigh, at least he knows where to find it. 


End file.
